


Make Me a Mute

by Amberly



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom!Bucky, M/M, PWP, Present Tense, Smut, references to past rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 14:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20176087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberly/pseuds/Amberly
Summary: Their love is a rough and tumble give and take built on hard lines and brick wall boundaries and knowing just how to say no, just how to say yes. How to give a threat like a promise that curls around the heart





	Make Me a Mute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).

> Happy Birthday to one of my most favorite people in the entire world. This whole fic is your fault. You are slowly dragging me in to this fandom, and I am not even a little bit mad about it. I hope I do these beautiful boys even half as much justice as you do them. Also I hope that you like the smut. Happy Birthday and I Love You! 
> 
> I'm still in that weird "who are these boys how do they relate what does their relationship look like" part of writing for this fandom. Given that I've been writing for my other fandom for uhhhhhh 18 years, it's a weird place to be in. 
> 
> Title is taken from the song "Flesh" by Simon Curtis

Without his hearing aids in, Clint is all touch. Skimming hands and restless lips. It’s different in a way Bucky can’t quantify. Doesn’t try to, all too aware of the lazy bliss in his lover’s hooded eyes, the way it spells ecstasy, carefully against his hand. Clint is pressing closer, soaking up the low rumble in Bucky’s chest as he moans and arches, catches the fingers pressed to his palm with his hand and brings them to his lips. Makes eye contact as he drags one, slow, in to his mouth. 

They’ve come up with a million ways to communicate. A thousand and one touches for days Clint doesn’t have it in him to be a person of hearing, or Bucky’s nonverbal. It’s a language of love all its own, one they keep tucked away for quiet moments after a mission, or during, when there’s no time to talk and barely time to touch. It’s a chaos neither of them can walk away from, a chaos that feeds their quiet moments, past bleeding in to the present in a way that is too familiar to both of them 

Clint draws his hand through Bucky’s hair. Draws him in to claim his mouth and his attention, clever fingers curling and tugging, nails against his scalp as his tongue maps his mouth. It’s insistent, sending heat curling through his stomach as he cups Clint’s cheek with the fingers not made of metal. Strokes all that warm skin even as he reaches for lube with the other. Slicks the thick digits down and thrusts them in, first one and then the other. 

He knows how much he can take, knows Clint knows too, watching him through barely blond lashes as he cants his hips for a better angle. Bucky is on display, a show, mouth dropping open in a breathless moan that reverberates all the way through him. There is trust in the quiet, the spaces between words neither of them voices, content to simply mouth. Give over to lips and tongue and Clint’s teeth just there, on the underside of Bucky’s jaw. There’s a tug, insistent, and Bucky gives in. Pulls his own cold digits out and hisses at the warmth that fills him, the way Clint’s fingers scissor. 

The first time he came apart to Clint’s touch had been just like this. A bed, no words. Fresh from a mission and riding high on adrenaline and fear, a metal tang settling at the back of his mouth and the ghost of electricity over his skin. Except this time it was Clint, the steady pressure of his lips, the searing heat of his tongue. Bucky opened and came apart, that first time. Left all the coiled fear behind on the tarmac as he followed Clint off it again and again—

They’d stopped pretend months ago. Didn’t bother to hide the slight impression of teeth on throats, hands on hips, or shoulders. Why, Bucky thought, when it put his pieces back together so well? When Clint could quirk his fingers just so, flick his wrist and send him gasping, quivering with need. Bucky is there now, needy as he runs his hand—both hands—down Clint’s chest. Rolls his nipples and his hips and begs with every line of muscle he has, every curve and taut place. He doesn’t have to. Knows that, as Clint offers a soothing shush, hands on his hips drawing him in, closer. 

He’d asked once. What Clint got out of it, back when they were pretending—when he thought that’s what it was. Clint has cursed. Taken his hearing aids out and thrown them at him, then marched away, gesticulating wildly to empty air. The tinny sound of both hitting metal had set Bucky spinning. Only a moment and a lifetime, blue eyes surprise wide and Oh. Oh, he’d thought, realizing that Clint didn’t care. Clint took because Bucky gave, because Clint already knew all the ways to come apart, could come apart just as easily over Bucky as inside him. They’d fucked against a wall, then, Bucky’s metal hand a silver band around his lover's waist as he took and took and took and—

Tonight is different. Tonight is hushed. Tonight is hearing sound from another room, or through water. Bucky makes noise and is silent at the same time as he pushes Clint down. Holds him, gleam of metal at his neck. Those hooded blue eyes darkening as he sinks, loose-limbed and careless on to his cock, and maybe size was objective before, but it’s hard to stay objective when it’s in him, when he can feel every hot inch of it as he bottoms out, free hand on Clint’s belly. 

Move. He’s going to move, any minute, soaking up the touches to his thighs, over his hips. Agonizingly close to his cock, brushing just shy as Clint’s hands sweep up his stomach, settle at his waist. His hips give a little roll and Bucky  _ groans.  _ Tightens his knees against his hips and cradles Clint’s jaw in his hand as he leans in, a slow filthy kiss that matches the way he undulates, too lazy to be a tease, thumb brushing a nipple. It’s all circles. The curl of his thumb and tongue and his hips, practiced and small and slow as he swivels, still holding Clint’s jaw, now skimming his throat. No pressure, just a weight, his own head tossing back. 

Clint’s knees go up, and Bucky takes it. Leans back and rests himself against him as he moves, heedless to the calculating eye of his lover. He moves like water, fluid and devastating, less snow and more hurricane as he tosses his head back again and finds himself still moving. Finds himself suddenly on his back, then his hands and knees. Clint is an acrobat, Clint is lithe muscle and strength in small shifts that are barely noticeable except now Bucky is facedown on the pillow, breathing in cotton and sweat and Clint, the smell so clear he aches with it, toes curling. He thrusts back as Clint thrusts forwards and he’d be pissed except this is how it is. Clint holds him and holds him down and he bucks, sharp and goading, into the cradle of his hips. An invitation and a challenge. 

Their love is a rough and tumble give and take built on hard lines and brick wall boundaries and knowing just how to say no, just how to say yes. How to give a threat like a promise that curls around the heart, the way Clint’s hand curls around Bucky’s cock and he shudders and cries out against the pillow, arches his hips as he silently begs for more, please, more, his thighs tensed, toes curling on the mattress as Clint gives the way Clint has always given, filling every part of him. 

His vision is white, spotty, and he comes with a violent cry, comes like the shatter of a glass as he breaks in Clint’s hand, no sharp edges. Only slick, only a spill, and he can feel it as Clint follows him over. Can feelhear the press of his mouth against his shoulder, the scrape of his teeth as he surrenders and looses whatever noise was caught in his throat in to Bucky’s skin. An ownership more complete than any Hyrda would ever have. 

They are twin chests rising and falling, equally sweaty and messy as they sprawl together, Clint splayed across his back like a brand. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Barely resists gulping for air now that he can turn his head. Bucky is shaky, his fingers inching towards Clint’s skin, itching to touch. To grasp and ground. His lover is already there, his fingers filling the spaces between his own as he inhales, then lets go. Melts loose and pliant in the bed, content to be rolled over and drawn close, his arms moving immediately to wrap around already heavy shoulders, Clint’s snore another vibration that fills him up. Soothes the jagged edges of his recovery soul until he, too, can rest. 


End file.
